Already the sun slips
,
filches off
at a sneaking speed.
The despot rising
declares a natural
state of emergency.
The pompous papa
prays on the instant
for a sum of leniency.
Alas, mere poet, see?
The sun protracts
your high-pitched misery.
Tonight a summer
full moon calls
a ball of lunacy.
The sun dictates the noon,
casts down dress codes
on the darling horology.
The moon denudes the day.
The night goes without
a blanket of authority.
The Coming of the Toads 